


Plan B

by Sihaya Black (beledibabe)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, SGA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-03
Updated: 2007-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beledibabe/pseuds/Sihaya%20Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Plan A doesn't work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plan B

**Author's Note:**

> Back on October 30th, 2007, scribblinlenore posted an SGA kink poll. The choices were intriguing and inspiring. ::g:: Folks wrote a number of absolutely delicious stories using a kink or two as prompts, and I started noodling on something, but ran out of steam for a while. Then kassrachel and chickwriter took a look and helped get me back on my feet, authorially speaking. Their encouragement and help were invaluable.

“There will come a time,” said the Holiest of Holy Ones, inclining his head toward Teyla, “when your Beloved will ask you to . . .” His voice dropped, and Teyla leaned forward, attentive, calm. Her eyebrows twitched when the Holy One finished, but she murmured her thanks and bowed her head. The corners of her mouth lifted, as if folding a secret in their embrace.

John scanned the room again to hide his surprise. Beloved? Teyla had a Beloved? Who? And why didn’t he know anything about it? She wasn’t very open about personal stuff, but that was one of the reasons they got along so well. Now, well, now he was curious. What else had the Holy One said? Would Teyla tell him if he asked her?

Knowing Teyla, probably not.

The Holy One turned his gaze on Ronon, standing relaxed and attentive at John’s left. In the drafty, vaulted chamber, Ronon and Teyla appeared serene and respectful, which was pretty much a constant for Teyla, but Ronon’s solemn reverence shamed John’s internal levity. Of course, Rodney’s hiss of “oh, my God, it’s the laughing Buddha with Roseanne Roseannadanna hair,” as they walked into the room hadn’t helped.

On his right, Rodney fidgeted. John nudged him with his elbow, and was rewarded with a much-put-upon sigh and then stillness. In the corner a fire burned in the brazier, a wisp of apple-scented smoke curling toward the ceiling.

“There will come a time when your Beloved will ask you to . . .” Again, the Holy One’s voice dropped. So Ronon had a Beloved, too. John swallowed his laugh. The sly dog. Then John heard “comfort” and “submit” and decided he didn’t really want to know more.

The Holy One turned to John, and his feeling of absurdity fled. Parti-colored eyes pinned him to the floor, opened him wide, rummaged in the back corners of his mind before blinking, releasing him with a soft hum.

“There will come a time when your Beloved will ask you to share yourself, put your emotions into words and speak them clearly as you make love.”

Rodney made some kind of noise -- a snigger, a grunt -- and John’s elbow jutted out again.

The Holy One’s smile grew. “Do this and your love will flourish.”

John opened his mouth, and the Holy One tilted his head. “You have a question, my child?”

“I. . .” This was ridiculous, just shut up and bow your head and . . . “I don’t have a Beloved.”

The Holy One met John’s eyes again. “You do.”

John clenched his teeth. Don’t argue. Especially not with a Holiest of Holy Ones whose flock has rifles. Lots of rifles. He forced a nod.

The Holy One winked, so fast John wondered if he imagined it. “You will recognize your Beloved very soon.”

Sure he would. If this was a cheesy movie-of-the-week.

John breathed deep when the Holy One turned away. Rodney’s boots scraped on the wooden floor and his chin lifted, but at least he didn’t speak.

“There will come a time when your Beloved will ask you to surrender control, to become pliant and to remain silent as you make love. Do this and your love will flourish.”

They had all bowed then, turned and were almost at the door when Rodney muttered “Pliant and silent. As if.”

John grinned. The idea of a pliant and silent Rodney was ridiculous. Absolutely ludicrous. He pictured Rodney lying back on a bed, eyes heavy-lidded, naked, legs spread, waiting. . .

John turned toward the ridge. Damned himself for a fool. “I’ll take point.”

At least that way no one could see the bulge in his trousers.

*

“Relationship advice!” Rodney stomped through the bracken behind John. “They promise us a marvelous boon and we get relationship advice?”

“Under the right circumstances, that can be a marvelous boon.” Teyla sounded the voice of reason. John didn’t have to look back to know that Rodney was rolling his eyes.

“Yes.” Rodney’s usual snap twisted into bitterness. “Under the circumstance of having a relationship in the first place.”

John couldn’t resist. “Don’t knock it until you try it, McKay.”

“Oh, very funny. I was hoping for some weapons, or a ZPM. That would be a proper boon.”

“Weapons,” Ronon said from the rear, “would be a proper boom.”

“Not necessarily. They could be a zap, or a. . .”

John tuned out Rodney’s words, a useful ability he’d perfected early on. He monitored the tone, which told him more than the words anyway about what was happening in Rodney’s world. Instead, he thought about a pliant and silent Rodney, one who would do what was asked without arguing, or complaining, or even glaring stubbornly while making little huffing noises.

Shit.

Now even walking was uncomfortable. He sighed and tucked away those thoughts until later. Much later. When he had privacy and a soft bed and as much lube as he could pour into the palm of his hand.

Not that he’d ever planned on fantasizing about Rodney in bed. John knew better. Never cross that line with straight guys who are also your colleagues; it was too easy to trip yourself up and then there’d be hell to pay. But one day, one unremarkable, ordinary day, he’d seen Rodney eat a pear. Eyes closed, cheeks flushed, practically glowing with pleasure, he’d made this ridiculous sound in the back of his throat and John knew exactly what he’d look like having sex. That night, imagining Rodney under him, looking like that, making that noise, John had come faster and harder than he had when he was fifteen.

Okay. So John liked to live dangerously.

But that was just sex. The Holy One was talking about. . . something else. Bigger. Scarier. Something John had tried once or twice and managed to turn into a disaster. Something John had sworn off for the rest of his life.

The Holy One had said John would recognize his Beloved soon. Very soon. Someone from Atlantis? John snorted. Not much Beloved material there. Maybe on an away mission? Or a new arrival?

They had reached the Gate before John dismissed the subject. What did that guy, holy or not, know about John Sheppard anyway?

*

John’s boots squelched as he tramped down the corridor. He’d returned his P90 to the armory, but he still had his sidearm. And he was sorely tempted to use it.

Trailing behind, Rodney complained. John didn’t even have to listen to know the subject. Chaos. Mayhem. Disaster. Not life-and-death, for a change, but still.

Thanks to Rodney’s ability to insult every sentient being in the universe five seconds after they met, John had ended up with sodden boots, a debrief that had left Carter smirking, and enough egg on his face to feed a church breakfast social.

That was it.

Spinning on his heel, he fixed Rodney with his death glare. “Shut up, McKay.”

Rodney stopped, mouth agape. His eyebrows lifted, and before he could roll his eyes, or blurt out something that would negate John’s words, or walk away, John stepped forward and growled. “Don’t say a word. Not a fucking word.”

And Rodney didn’t. He blinked, retreated until his back pressed into the wall, and stared at John. Face flushed, panting.

John took another step forward, his gaze roving over Rodney. A drop of sweat escaped from Rodney’s hairline and trailed down his temple. The tip of Rodney’s tongue touched his lower lip. His breathing stuttered. With a gasp, Rodney pulled his laptop case between them.

But John had already seen the bulge below Rodney’s belt. A match for the one below his.

“You bastard.” Rodney’s words were barely a whisper.

Mouth suddenly desert-dry, John took one step back. Two. Walked away as fast as possible without actually running, because running would have been cowardly. Walking was just . . . walking.

Right.

The door of his room closed behind him and John stopped, tried to slow his ragged breathing. He wanted. . . Oh, yeah, he wanted to turn around and march right back to Rodney and kiss him until Rodney staggered and then strip him slowly, tasting each inch of skin as it was revealed. He wanted to swallow Rodney’s dick and fill Rodney’s ass and. . . His breath caught. Damn it. He couldn’t.

John wasn’t cruel. He’d seen it in Rodney’s face. Rodney wanted a lot more than sex. And that was exactly what John couldn’t give him.

John collapsed on his bed with a groan. How could he have been so stupid? He’d never even wondered who Rodney’s beloved was.

*

John managed to avoid being alone with Rodney the next day. And the one after that. Not that it was difficult, because Rodney seemed to be avoiding John just as carefully. They ignored each other if they passed in the corridors, sat across the room from each other in meetings, chose different tables at meals. If Rodney talked more than usual, pushed and argued and grabbed at control with both hands, it didn’t matter to John.

He had no trouble keeping his mind on the business at hand and saying as little as possible.

Occasionally, when John’s focus slipped, he remembered the look on Rodney’s face -- so damned naked and open, want coupled with need -- and he felt guilty. Not that he had any reason to feel that way. It wasn’t his fault that Rodney, for some reason, liked him.

Loved him.

And wasn’t that a kick in the pants? Doctor Rodney McKay, pining after him. The Pegasus galaxy had sprung some surprises -- good and bad -- but this one ranked right up there with almost blowing up in a nuclear explosion, almost turning into a bug, almost dying at the hand of a Wraith.

Then there was another crisis, and another, and the weirdness between them subsided, only a faint watermark remaining to show what had once happened.

“Can’t you hurry, McKay?” John murmured into his headset as he scanned the distant tree line. No sign yet.

“No. I thought I’d sit down and put my feet up before getting overrun by gigantic spiders with nasty dispositions.” Rodney grunted. “I am hurrying. I’ve been hurrying ever since--”

“McKay?”

A leg -- a twenty-foot long, orange and black, hairy leg -- appeared above the ridge. And then more. A lot more.

“McKay!”

A burst of fire from his right. Ronon didn’t like spiders, he’d muttered to John as they raced back to the jumper. Didn’t like them at all. He’d still had white, sticky stuff in his dreds.

Bodies -- big as a hummer, with eyes like Klieg lights -- lifted high. John swallowed. “Rodney, if you don’t want to end up like Frodo, you’d better--”

“Okay!” Rodney panted in John’s ear. “Let’s go!”

John got them into the air as the spiders stampeded down the slope. Up, up, faster, faster. They spat huge clots of sticky silk, which he avoided, sending the jumper lurching. Beside him, Rodney chanted “Spiders. Big spiders. Big fucking spiders” over and over until John thought they were high enough to be safe.

Which was, of course, when they were hit.

“God damn it!”

They didn’t fall. Not yet. John struggled, urging the jumper up, while the spider tried to reel them in from below.

“Rodney,” he gritted out, wiping the sweat from his eyes, “take over the helm. Got to free us.”

“Don’t be a moron, Colonel.” Rodney was already headed toward the rear. “Just keep us from crashing. Or being eaten.”

John fought with the controls. Behind him, shouting. A lot of shouting. Mainly Rodney.

Another rope of silk hit them. They dropped a yard. Then two.

The rear hatch opened. John couldn’t see what was going on; he had to concentrate, focus on keeping them aloft.

A scream. Rodney’s. The jumper jerked, strained against the pull, jerked again.

And then they were free, shooting into the air like a stone from a slingshot. One second, two seconds. Miles away and definitely out of range, John leveled off, scrambled out of his seat and ran back to the still open hatch.

Where Ronon and Teyla were hauling on a safety line, and John’s heart thudded and his knees wobbled, because he could hear Rodney screaming, which meant he was still alive. He tightened his knees and ignored his heart pounding in his chest and helped pull Rodney inside. Windblown and whimpering, clutching a big-assed knife in one hand and a bottle of something -- acid to dissolve the silk? -- in the other, Rodney landed on his belly and kissed the floor.

John knelt beside him and traced the harness strapped around Rodney’s shoulders and chest, fingers fumbling. Too late to pretend this was a safety check, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull his shaking hands away.

Panting, Rodney turned his head and opened his eyes. His gaze met John’s, no barriers, no lies.

John snatched his hands back, tucked them under his arms. Somehow he scrambled to his feet and returned to his seat, head spinning with newfound knowledge.

Okay. Stay calm. Stay cool. Don’t pull a Rodney and panic, even though -- God -- he wanted to panic, could feel panic’s sharp claws shredding his composure. How had he not realized that his interest in Rodney went beyond sex, wasn’t just physical?

The question was, what was John going to do about it?

He’d never encountered an emotional situation that couldn’t be handled by avoidance. If it had just been sex, he might have considered giving it a try. But no. Despite years of attempting to cultivate an emotional outlook shallower than a wading pool, he knew there was more going on between them than just the idea of Rodney’s lips against his, of touch and taste and the sound of bodies fitting together.

By the time they landed back on Atlantis, John had a plan.

The problem was, he forgot he was dealing with Rodney McKay.

*

“Colonel. Colonel!”

Damn. He thought Rodney was still in the infirmary, complaining about getting PTSD from spiders and demanding something for the deep bruises on his chest and shoulders from the harness straps. John forged ahead, not slackening his pace, pushing against the stream of people heading toward the mess hall and their dinner. If he couldn’t see Rodney behind him, clutching two laptops and a sandwich, he could pretend he didn’t hear him, either.

That worked until one of the new arrivals, a young Marine with an earnest face who was now officially on the Colonel’s shit list, pointed out that Doctor McKay was trying to get the Colonel’s attention. So, of course, the Colonel had to stop and wait for Rodney to catch up.

“Are you deaf?” Rodney panted, shifting the laptops to one arm and waving the sandwich. “Or were you so wrapped up in planning your next beach vacation that you didn’t hear me?”

One laptop was balanced precariously on the other, threatening to slide off as Rodney gestured. John didn’t want to live through another one of Rodney’s emotional traumas if it hit the ground, so he grabbed it and tucked it under his arm, ignoring Rodney’s “hey, that’s mine!”

“What is it, McKay?” Voice: flat. Attitude: bored. His plan in action.

Rodney turned to him, eyes narrowed. He stared at John, who very carefully did not fidget.

For a fraction of a second, Rodney’s eyes dimmed, his mouth softened, and then, between one blink and the next, he was back to his usual smug, imperious self. He nodded once. “I see. This is the way it’s going to be, is it?”

John swallowed, shifted Rodney’s computer to his other arm. A warning sounded in the back of his mind. Following his plan might be tougher than he thought.

“What’s what going to be?” He had to move. Somewhere. Anywhere. He started walking, turned down a quiet side corridor.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Rodney dogged his steps. “No, you can’t do that. This isn’t something you can,” he waved the sandwich again, “just shrug your way out of. You can’t just ignore this, run away. . .”

John turned again, and again, ending up in an alcove with no other exit, Rodney cutting off any escape.

“. . . realize you haven’t had a chance to get used to the idea, not like I have, because, God, I’ve lived with wanting this for too many--”

Rodney’s voice suddenly came through, loud and clear, as if John had just surfaced from a wave and managed to shake the water out of his ears. “What?”

Rodney scowled. “You’re not listening. I’m telling you that I can deal with the idea that we won’t just jump into bed together and make like bunnies, that we need to take things slowly, because I’m already used to the whole wanting thing,” he gestured between them, “and it’s perfectly obvious that you’re not. So that’s one less issue to worry about.”

With a sigh, John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay, so his plan needed some adjustment. He was flexible. In fact, he was the poster child for flexible, and Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to think about being flexible with Rodney, who had flipped open his laptop and was barreling ahead since John had missed his window of opportunity to reply.

“. . . Made up a schedule that covers all the milestones, first kiss, handjob, blowjob, etcetera, etcetera, which I’ll email you, and yes, of course, I understand that these dates are more guidelines than anything, but hello, waiting over here, so if you could manage to finish freaking out by the end of next week, the week after that, tops, then we can--”

“A schedule?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified. Typical McKay. But he had to stop this, he had to brake Rodney’s forward momentum before everything spun out of control.

“We’re both busy men, Colonel. Sheppard. John. At least I am, since I’m responsible for more than my fair share of the work, which is why--”

“Rodney.” Why did he always get the shitty jobs?

“Mmm?” Staring at the screen, Rodney chewed his lower lip and typed a little more, one-handed.

“Stop it.” John’s temples began to throb. Probably what it felt like to bang your head against a brick wall. “I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can.” Rodney poked a few more keys, still transfixed by the screen. “If you’re worried about me not being able to keep our relationship secret from your ridiculous military authorities, don’t. I have top level security clearances and have never, well, hardly ever, let anything slip. Nothing important, at any rate. Nothing life- or career-threatening.” He paused, cheeks flushing, raising his gaze to John. “Not often.”

“It’s not that. Not completely.” John shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. “I just. . .” He lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know how to do a relationship. Sex, yeah, sure, fine. But. . .” He mirrored Rodney’s wave between them. “Not so much.”

Rodney blinked. “Are you always this inarticulate? God, don’t answer that, because yes, you are. The short answer, Colonel -- John -- is that I don’t do relationships either. I have no idea how to make this work. But I’m willing to try, despite the fact that this entire situation was precipitated by a sacred personage who looks like the bastard love child of a mature Orson Welles and a chia pet, because, well, I think the sex would probably be so great that I might just die of a coronary mid-orgasm, and also we’d be good together, and please God, don’t make me repeat that, because,” he snapped the laptop closed and hugged it to his chest, “could I sound any more like a girl?”

“Probably not.” John couldn’t help grinning. Only Rodney could mix practicality with emotional flailing and still make John laugh. But what Rodney wanted was still impossible. Absolutely, totally impossible. John sobered. “Rodney. . .”

Rodney’s gulp was both visible and audible. A little crease appeared across his forehead, his mouth flattened, his shoulders straightened. Steeling himself for rejection.

John recognized the look. He’d seen it often enough in his own mirror. Hated that look on his own face, hated it a hundred, a thousand times more seeing it on Rodney’s. Especially knowing he had put it there. Knowing he was the only one who could banish it.

Plan A was a wash. Complete disaster. John took a shaky breath. Okay. Fall back. Regroup. He could do this. He really could. Time for Plan B.

“I’m no good with words.” John said slowly, then frowned. That wasn’t strictly true. He was fine with words that didn’t mean anything. Banter. Teasing. But important words, the slippery ones, the ones that could hurt, he was no good with those.

Rodney opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it. Eyebrows raised, he tilted his head expectantly. As if he could hear John’s thoughts.

“I don’t know how. . .” John rubbed his nose. “How to say emotional. . . stuff.”

Rodney waited, silent. His hands tightened around the laptop, still pressed to his chest like some high tech body armor. Like he needed to protect himself -- his heart -- from John.

That hurt. He didn’t want Rodney to do that, not because of him. John reached out, tugged the laptop from Rodney’s grasp. Stacked it on top of the one he held and set them both carefully in the corner. Then he faced Rodney again, held his gaze. “If I say it.” John’s throat closed. This was hard. Harder, in some ways, than fighting the Wraith, or flying to your more-than-likely death. But Rodney wasn’t the only one whose courage had grown since entering Atlantis. “If I say it, it’s real.”

A long pause, then Rodney nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.

Still protecting, damn him.

John reached out, wrapped his fingers around Rodney’s wrist and tugged. Rodney took a breath, as if to speak, but remained silent. He lowered his arms, his free hand rubbing his thigh. John held onto Rodney’s wrist, Rodney’s pulse jumping beneath his fingers.

“If I say it.” John’s fingered tightened, then he released Rodney’s wrist. “I can’t ignore it. Can’t bury it. Inside.”

John was shocked that he’d managed to get the words out, few as they were. And a little pleased.

Rodney lifted his hand, cupped his fingers around John’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Yeah, I can practice.” John gave a dry chuckle. “With you.”

That earned him half a grin. There was still a wariness in Rodney’s eyes that tugged on something tender inside John’s chest, made him catch his breath.

“Sorry. No more.” John shrugged in apology. “Or I’ll puke.”

Rodney gazed at John, his wariness slowly fading. He took a deep breath and let out a gusty sigh. “Not bad for a first attempt.”

Feeling turned inside out, John just raised an eyebrow. Thank God he didn’t have to say anything else, at least for a while.

Rodney’s grin widened, and he bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

John could almost feel the joy radiating off Rodney. All because he managed to mumble out a few words. It was worth it, just to see Rodney so elated. Excited. Euphoric.

“Can we go back to your room and kiss now, maybe make out a little?” Rodney’s voice cracked. “Or my room, for that matter, but it’s a mess, since someone has been monopolizing all my valuable time with missions that honestly aren’t worth the--”

“Can we fuck, too?”

John was quietly delighted that he was the one who remembered to pick up Rodney’s computers.

*

“You,” John gasped, inched his hips forward, sliding deeper into Rodney. “I wanted you, too.”

Rodney’s fingers dug into John’s biceps as he tried to pull John closer. Rodney groaned, but since he didn’t actually articulate any words, John decided not to call him on it. As soon as the door to his room had closed behind them, John had dumped the laptops on his desk and grabbed Rodney, finally, finally, holding him tight, bringing their mouths together.

Rodney kissed like he talked, all busy tongue and open lips and bossy attitude. John had forced him to slow down, kissed him hot and dirty, until Rodney whimpered and threw his arms around John’s shoulders, dragging them onto the bed.

Another inch, scorching and tight, into Rodney, another groan. John wasn’t sure who had made the noise this time, maybe them both. Didn’t matter. Close. So close. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to Rodney’s, murmured words into their kiss he’d never been able to say out loud.

He pulled back and looked at Rodney, spread out beneath him, sweaty and bruised and glassy-eyed and writhing on John’s dick. Maybe he would be able to say them to Rodney. One day. Maybe.

Until then. . . John wrapped his hand around Rodney’s dick, stroked him hard and fast.

“C’mon, Rodney,” John whispered in Rodney’s ear. He tightened his grip. “I’m gonna. . . Don’t make me do this alone.”

Another stroke, another. Rodney moaned, arched beneath John, pressing John farther inside. His muscles -- arms, legs, belly, ass -- tensed.

John squeezed his eyes shut, dizzy from the pressure on his dick, from the reality of being with Rodney. Suddenly, Rodney jerked, climaxing with a soft shout. John forced his eyes open, needing to see Rodney’s face tight with pleasure, to see his come painted on their bellies and chests.

He loosened his grip on Rodney’s dick, but still held it gently as he moved in, out. He needed. . . He wanted. . .

Rodney.

It was enough. John leaned forward, hips stuttering as he came deep inside Rodney. He felt. . . More than he expected, more than he realized was possible. As different from just sex as riding a bike was from flying a fighter jet. He’d never known.

Rodney opened his eyes, lifted his head. “Alone?” he gasped, his body trembling. “Are you crazy? The holy guy said you were mine. Beloved. No way you’re doing this alone. Ever again.”

Arms collapsing, John buried his face in Rodney’s neck, hiding his smile. At least Rodney had the words. Maybe, one day, he would too.

Looked like Plan B was a winner.


End file.
